Staghorn burst from his hiding place with Peccary at his heels. They
dashed for the square. They were over the curb and into the street
before the men in the park saw their approach and let out cries of
triumph.
"Dip and weave, Dr. Peccary! Dip and weave!"
They dipped and wove, while bullets ripped at their clothing. They
were running right into the fire, making better targets at every
stride. Staghorn ran with his watch in his hand, and never had time and
distance diminished so slowly.
Seven seconds, six, five, and they were still alive and across the
street. Four seconds, three, two.
They were over the park and onto the grass. A bullet crashed into
Staghorn's leg and he fell, diving forward.
"Got him!" cried his great-grandson. "Now get Peccary!"
* * * * *
Three shots rang out as one. But at some point in the bullets' flight
toward Peccary and Staghorn, the square and everything in it vanished.
Staghorn found himself sitting in Humanac's transmitter unit.
The time clock had functioned. He was disengaged.
He lifted the helmet from his head and stumbled from the cell, drawing
a trouser leg up to examine his leg. It seemed that he could detect a
scar. Then he turned and helped Dr. Peccary from the other transmitter.
Both men stepped toward the console to look at Humanac's screen.
It was still focused on the little park. The bearded man and his
companions were now exchanging glances of consternation. After a moment
the bearded man wet his lips. "Maybe he was right," he said in awed
tones. "No one but my great-grandfather could ever do a trick like
that. And maybe what he said is true. It's all illusion. We're nothing
but mathematical probabilities!"
At this point Staghorn hauled down the master switch. The screen went
dead as Humanac's power was shut off.
Some twenty minutes later he had finished draining Dr. Peccary's sample
of the Y Hormone from Humanac's analyzer and had thoroughly cleansed
the computer of any last traces of it. He handed the little bottle of
the hormone back to Dr. Peccary.
"There," he said. "As far as Humanac is concerned, it's as though it
never was. Do as you wish."
Dr. Peccary looked at the bottle sadly. It was worth millions.
Billions.
Then slowly he moved to a laboratory sink and poured the contents of
the bottle down the drain.
"I can't help wondering," mused Staghorn, "of whose computer we're a
part right now--slight factors in the chain of causation that started
God knows when and will end...."
"When someone pulls the switch," said Dr. Peccary.